


Foresight

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Insecurity, John Watson's RAMC Mug, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-02-27 22:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: When Sameer accidentally breaks something, he worries about consequences.





	Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> This would probably make more sense if you had read the first part of this series, but the details have been placed early in this installment too as a refresher.
> 
> ++

It was just another one of those things that sort of ... happened.

A lively discussion, John from the sitting room while Sherlock was in the kitchen, followed by a bustle of activity, movement in the flat, laughing, hurrying, rushing to get something, the simple act of moving, walking past, of clumsiness perhaps exacerbated by a pre-pubescent, rapid growth spurt. 

"Watch out!" The urgency of the reflexive words, a sharp delivery, a cautionary phrase spoken too late. In retrospect later, John would wish to have softened the tone. And yet, perhaps not, given the possibility of injury. Either way, words spoken cannot be taken back.

One moment, John's empty RAMC mug was safely on the kitchen table and the next moment, it was hit accidentally by a wayward elbow.

It could have been any one of them. In this case, it was Sameer.

++

Sameer was around eight when John discovered his existence, meeting him for the first time, having known - yes,  _known_ , in that way - his mum Laila for a brief time in Afghanistan. John'd been injured, rescued by a kind-hearted Afghan woman, and had been tended to and cared for as he recovered. He regained his strength, was found by his unit, evacuated, and sent home. However, their brief relationship had left something behind: an unexpected male baby had been conceived. Laila had passed away a handful of years later leaving Sameer orphaned - as far as anyone knew, anyway. John's name, however, had been listed on Sameer's birth certificate, and a military liaison at an Afghan military outpost took note of it.

Sameer might have survived quite safely in one of the local orphanages had it not been for his distinct features that set him apart. Quite firmly apart, to the point he would have been an outcast. Pariah, certainly. Even to the point of being in danger. Quite obviously white parentage, given the fierce, striking, vivid blue eyes.

John Watson's eyes - sharp, bright, sometimes piercing, often gentle eyes - to be exact.

And so, in yet another event quite unplanned, Sameer had been brought to London, and had come to live with John, Sherlock, and Rosie.

++

To describe Sameer's expression as horrified would have been quite an understatement. _Terrified_ , more like it.

His eyes wide, mouth frozen open, body stunned and shocked into absolute stillness. He stood breathless, while the sounds of shattering porcelain rippled, a stray fragment rolling about on the floor, clattering under the table, another shard into the kitchen. The angle of trajectory, the precise edge it must have caught to _explode_ so profusely and abruptly could not have been more exact for maximum destruction. A larger piece of ceramic spun for a few seconds where it had launched to, finally slowing and coming to a stop. The flat, for a few suspended moments, was engulfed in heavy silence.

Sherlock found his words first. "It's okay." Sameer did manage to blink but kept his eyes now on the floor, on the fragments, the  _shrapnel_. "It's fine," Sherlock restated.

"Are you hurt?" John had been near the desk, and had already risen to his feet, surveying the damage, the scene. "Careful, you don't have shoes on." John held up his hands, palms forward, indicating he should stay put.

An excited and keyed up Rosie was mid-way between the table and the couch, "Oh no! Papa’s favourite mug!" Her eyes were almost as wide as Sameer's, and with her three-year-old problem solving mind, she blurted, "You should run!"

++

You should run.

At times, Sherlock tended to play quite animatedly and occasionally rather physical, unexpectedly crawling about, role-playing a beast, a dragon, a hungry panther. He would sometimes pretend to be starving, teasing Rosie that monsters liked to nibble on little girls. _You should run_  had been one of his phrases, something fully and completely in jest that he brought out when she wasn't paying attention - or enough attention - and he would crouch and slink on his long limbs across the floor and growl at her, typically vaulting the game into high gear when he would grow more menacing and then snarl with full exaggeration in their antics, "You should run!" She loved it, shrieking and squealing and _laughing_ , sometimes laughing so hard she could barely move away from his long reach, her giggling infectious, knowing it was - of course, obviously - all in good fun.

You should run. Always light-hearted, always playing. _Always._

Sherlock would say it to Rosie, and had even included Sameer a time or two over the past weeks, when John would call them for bathtime or dinner, and playtime held more appeal. Sherlock sometimes said it to himself when John was aggravated at something he hadn't cleaned up in the flat or before he was tasked something he deemed unpleasant. Either John or Sherlock tended to say it when Rosie's Uncle Mycroft popped round, particularly if they spotted him out the window and he was not bearing gifts or sweets. They hadn't considered it anything other than playful fun, a silly thing that meant no particular crisis or urgency.

Funny how timing - especially when complicated by limited English proficiency - was indeed everything.

++

Sameer took the phrase to heart.

And quick as a flash, he high-tailed it down the hall and scampered up the stairs as if pursued by the hounds of hell.

++

John followed immediately. “I will pack?” Sameer was sitting at the edge of the bed, his hands touching restlessly over his lap, his face forlorn.

Kneeling opposite him, John leaned in closer, answering immediately. "Of course not. Oh my, Sameer, no!" There was no answer, and John could feel the desperation inside wanting to make Sameer understand. He reached out with his hands, wanting to reassure, and touched the boy carefully on the knees only to have Sameer recoil. John withdrew his hands. "It's okay, and I would never ..." John's words trailed off as he ached inside at what he saw. Sameer was shaking with emotion, his body tense, and John rocked back on his heels to give him just a little bit of space as he considered that for some reason the boy equated an accident, a breakage, to be something of serious offence with dire repercussions.

"Because ... " and Sameer's words halted, his head going downward even further. "Because I ..."

John pondered the language barrier, wondered about explaining this well and knew he would have to keep it simple. "First of all, Rosie was just teasing. Playing." There was a small dip of Sameer's eyebrows as he listened. "We say that when we're having fun, and she didn't mean it. She's little, and she doesn't understand what she said." John had no English words to help describe the concept of 'literal' so he didn't try to explain it.

Sameer nodded then as if he understood, but his eyes were still soulful. "But I --" and he gestured with his hands, mimicking knocking something over. "Your tea ..." and his emotion prevented even the more simple words he knew from coming out in English, a muttered Dari phrase that John of course didn't understand.

From his vantage point, kneeling at Sameer's feet, John picked up each sock-covered feet in turn, brushing lightly, assuring himself that there were no remaining pieces of ceramic and no wounds. Then, sliding onto the bed next to him, he reached out with a gently insistent, direct finger, to lift at Sameer's chin. There was resistance at first as he fought to keep his gaze averted. "Sameer? Hey." The eight-year-old neck muscles were no match for John's gentle yet firm assertion as he whispered, "It's okay," and when Sameer's head was tilted up finally, John could see that his eyes were frightened and bright, extra moisture gathering with unshed tears.

++

Sameer didn't remember his mother's family at all. He was too young to remember the final catastrophic argument or his grandfather's harsh renouncing of the pair of them, of denying their relationship, of he and his mother being banished from darkening the family door ever again. He'd heard about it in detail, however, his mother talking in low tones with an acquaintance when he was in another room and she'd thought him otherwise occupied. The story had come out in snippets, of her fear, the anger of her father. She mentioned her very real worry that he could have killed her along with her sweet, blue-eyed son. She had explained to this friend, tearfully and in a vibrato voice, about how her enraged father had smashed a picture frame, glass and wood splintering and how she'd managed to take the photo with her on her flight from the room, on her escape to safety. They had never returned.

Her upset at the recanting of the story, well, he remembered that quite well.

Together Sameer and Laila would manage the sounds of the war, of distant explosions, of nearby gunshots, of pounding angry fists of rebel militia, of airstrikes, of IEDs. They learned not to flinch at those sounds, at the uncertainty, the loud unpredictable sounds of unrest. Laila always, however, without fail, would shake _uncontrollably_ at the sound of breaking glass: Bottles, windows, plates, windshields, anything that shattered or sounded like glass, would always, _every time_ make her quake.

He'd caught her a time or two, tearful, her fingers brushing over the rescued photo image sadly, quietly. The photo - all strangers to him - had been placed inside a book, where she would take it out from time to time, always somber, but never tell him much about his family. The picture had been ripped and damaged by the broken glass, punctured, and she never talked to him about that night, or why they never saw her family again. He knew anyway, about the photo and the glass and her primal fear, all becoming entwined and deeply rooted. He probably couldn't have explained it had he wanted to, the depth of the pain. The sound, though. He vividly remembered that, the conditioned response, Laila's shaking, the visceral fear, he recalled that and the lingering, empty sadness after it happened; it was even more painful and vivid after she was gone. That particular association had stayed with him.

++

"The mug is replaceable." Sameer frowned at the word. "I can get another mug," John clarified.

Sameer sat, continuing to try to avoid John's gaze, to wrench away from where he was being held. John eased up his touch but didn't move, didn't want to give even a remote sense that Sameer was being abandoned.

"Tell me," John said softly, "did you do that on purpose?" A puzzled look meant Sameer hadn't quite understood the word. "Did you mean to, did you  _want_  to break the mug?"

The boy shook his head quickly, quietly, seriously. "No!" His quick answer was alarmed, and he desperately wanted John to believe him.

"I know you didn't." John, nodding, hoped his words were reassuring and calm. Though he wanted to reach out and touch, he kept still. "It was an accident. I know that. Accidents happen." Their eyes, so similar, met and held, and John could feel himself relax a bit when Sameer didn't look away immediately. "You understand the word 'accident?'  _Fahmidam_?"  _Do you understand?_

They didn't communicate much in Dari, but at bedtime most nights, Sameer would teach John one of the more common words and phrases, or review one they'd already done, giggling a bit at John's efforts or pronunciations. It helped, the reciprocal language study. He wasn't asking Sameer to do something that John himself wasn't willing to do.

"Yes. Acc-i-dent."

"Please don't worry. I'm not angry. You live here, you belong here. Your family is here now. This is your home." John had learned not to rush through words, letting Sameer have ample time to figure things out, for the meanings to have opportunity to sink in. "Nothing will change that."

Sameer nodded with slow motions, though John could tell the impact of his words may have been comprehended but not fully embraced yet. He brushed a hand over Sameer's head then, ruffling his hair, keeping it casual. With a shy glance away again, Sameer's face developed a faint, although brief, frown, and his eyes and expression were almost sorrowful. "I'm sorry, papa."

"I know," John was quick to assure him, and embraced him quickly, knowing Sameer was not yet comfortable with much of that. "Let's go get that mess cleaned up, then. I'll help you." They'd no sooner stood up than John tapped at his son's shoulder. "Shoes first, okay? So you don't hurt your feet."

Sameer nodded and tried to smile, then got his shoes on as John had asked him.

++

The following evening, they were coming home from having a quick family dinner a few blocks over. Rosie was chatting about something she had seen, when all of a sudden from a little distance behind them, there was noise. Loud, pay-attention, kind of noise. They halted on the kerb as a horn blared, brakes screeched, tyres squealed, and it was followed shortly by the harsh, grating sound of metal on metal, then the sparkling boom of glass shattering, a side view mirror perhaps. Another horn, and then more pieces crackling and hitting the pavement, the aftermath of the collision. Rosie stopped talking, and they all turned to look. It was half a block away and people were standing still then almost immediately rushing to help, and it was seemingly minor as far as injuries went, so John didn't feel obligated to offer his assistance.

Sherlock looked smug as he shrugged at the scene directly. "Texting and driving, obviously, given the angle of impact, driver at fault still holding his mobile, see? Let's go home before --" and his voice trailed off as he caught sight of Sameer's body language, his expression. Sherlock's arm reached out immediately to touch John, but John was standing at Sameer's side and had already noticed the boy's reaction.

More than just surprised, Sameer was _petrified_ , eyes staring wide, his mouth set in a frozen line, body completely still, and he was panicked. Frightened. And then began to shake.

"It's okay," John said quietly, crouching down to Sameer's level, finding the boy fully tense, his skin tight and more pale than his usual colour. "Just two cars, is all. They're all right, and we're safe." John reached out, laid his hand over Sameer's arm. "You're safe."

"The glass," Sherlock breathed quietly, taking Rosie's hand. "And the noise. At least in part." With a nod and tip of his head, he let John know that he was taking Rosie home, giving John a little space to handle this. 

John nodded once in return and watched Sherlock start off with Rosie, who thankfully was fully cooperating. "We're okay," John breathed to Sameer again, and without making a big deal of it, he lifted Sameer up in his arms to hold him, his weight easily supported, his legs dangling, but his head close to John's where he could hear the murmured words of comfort, of encouragement, of assurance, of whatever else random he chose to say. They stayed on the kerb for only a few minutes, and John could feel the moment when Sameer's clinging relaxed a little. Setting him down, he kept a hand along Sameer's pale face and asked, "Are you better now?" At Sameer's slow nod, John held out a hand toward him, an offer, a request. With tentative uncertainty, Sameer placed his hand into John's, and they headed back to the flat.

At bedtime, John made a few efforts to see if Sameer would open up. He tried, "Loud noises are scary," and, "Sometimes breaking glass can make people afraid."

The only response he got was a few eye-blinks, and a whispered, "Yes."

He tried another tack. "You know you're safe here." There was no response. "I'll do the best I can to make sure you're always safe."

"I know." This whisper was even quieter, and Sameer shut his eyes.

Conversation over.

++

"We should have done this before now." John sighed, loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"I disagree. And I still think he's doing well. Consider all he's been through, and the language that he's picked up rather well. It's ..."

"Yes, I'm not arguing that point." John scooted down on the couch, his posture terrible as he considered something mostly invisible on the ceiling. The weight of responsibility, to protect and nurture, was heavy on him. He sighed, blinked, and tiredly brushed his hand over his face. "Timing, though. Maybe by waiting ..."

"It will be fine." Sherlock cleared his throat, hoping John would fix his position before his back or neck made him - and then possibly the rest of them - miserable. "Stop worrying."

The smile John offered was weak but infused with a little bit of hope. He sniffed, and shrugged helplessly back at Sherlock's direction to him. "I'll start making some phone calls in the morning." 

"Well," Sherlock muttered with an indignant hand gesturing at John's posture, "don't wait until morning before sitting up straight. I don't want to have to deal with you worried _and_ stiff from your unwise body mechanics."

++

It was only a day or so later, a routine day, one that might've been termed 'boring' long ago, when Rosie pitched an age-typical temper tantrum. She did this rarely, of course, from time to time, but usually it was short-lived, redirectable, and did not usually approach meltdown status.

It was over something relatively non-remarkable, being asked to clean up her puzzle and games before bed, and her unfortunate reaction was one of _losing it_ \- upending a basket of toys and shrieking, stomping and some out-of-control complaining that she hates everyone and everything. Her behaviour earned her a calm speaking-to, a guiding hand of her papa to her bedroom to settle herself down, and gentle words clearly explaining that she could come back out when she was ready to obey. John returned calmly to the sitting room, caught Sherlock's eye, and without a word he shook the journal slightly as he picked it back up to continue reading it.

Both Sherlock and John were well aware that Sameer had been watching Rosie and was definitely watching them both now. He was wide-eyed, wondering, trying to figure out what exactly was happening. He had never seen anything like this, the first Rosie-tantrum of this magnitude in his weeks since coming to Baker Street.

Upstairs, there was an audio indication of how she was faring. The yelling ceased almost right away; a few minutes later, there were some unintelligible words, the sound of whatever Rosie was doing in her room, her talking to herself or to a stuffed animal, complaining to a captive audience of toys. From downstairs they could hear the closet door opening, the sound of something on her bookshelf, and more muffled muttering until eventually there was silence for a few moments. And then the quiet stretched longer. Soon, there was the sound of quiet footsteps approaching.

Shortly after that, Rosie peeped around the corner. Her cheeks were still slightly flushed.

"Oh, hello." John raised only his eyes and his expression was simply curious and laid-back. Rosie stood watching while John sat patiently. After a minute or two, he spoke again. "Are you ready to take care of this now?" John's voice was somewhat low, matter-of-fact, and direct. Her little jaw jutted out at first, but then she gave a nod. One, single nod. "Good choice," John said.

With solemn eyes, Sameer watched her begin to get the room sorted again, and at the end he came closer to her as she re-boxed the puzzle. His hand was tentative as he reached out to help her, placing a handful of the small pieces into the box. Rosie cast a worried eye at John, who was casually watching them. John nodded at them both - Sameer had also turned to see his reaction - and smiled pleasantly. "That's nice of you, to help. Thank you."

He raised one eyebrow at Rosie as he spoke the polite words, and Rosie caught on to his reminder. "Yes, thank you."

Once the room was fully straightened, John beckoned them both over, making room on the couch next to him. Without a moment's hesitation, Rosie perched on his lap, tucking under his arm, and Sameer started off a short gap away from him until John gathered an arm around him too. The children's book for the night was a classic one, one of their favourites, familiar and heartwarming. They all enjoyed, usually, reading a story or two before bedtime. It wasn't necessarily about the activity or the message, but about the routine, the touch, and the fondness. Unconditional acceptance.

Sameer was very much aware of the ease with which Rosie snuggled close on John's lap, the way she relaxed in his arms. He'd seen the way the little drama had played out, that she had misbehaved and that they had settled things. In particular John hoped that Sameer noticed that her misbehaviour didn't change things. That they had resolved it, moved on.

"Okay, time for teeth, and then bed," John cued, setting Rosie down from his knee. He raised a questioning brow at Sherlock, his non-verbal request to finish getting Rosie into bed, was readily accepted. 

"You want me to read another one to you?" John asked Sameer, gesturing at the pile of books nearby.

Sameer nodded, selecting one but keeping hold of it as John would read it. They developed a little bit of a rhythm, the pauses indicating when to turn the page, an occasional intentional silence and Sameer's questioning glance back at John's face. Occasionally John would point to a word or one of the pictures, now and again explain a bit further. Sameer's smile was tentative but his eyes were bright, and an idea - inspiration - struck John. "Hold on just a moment," John breathed, hoping Sameer wouldn't pull away as he shifted quickly to pull him onto his lap, taking the space that Rosie had recently vacated. It took a few seconds, some gentle adjustments until both of them were comfortable. "This all right?" he questioned, and when Sameer nodded again with a whispered affirmation, John began to read again from the book.

By the next page, Sameer had relaxed, his dark head snuggled under John's chin, his body settled securely as he reclined against John's shoulder. At the end of the first book, John couldn't bear to stop, so he chose another. By the end of the third book, Sameer was heavy in John's lap, almost drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock had long returned, and from his vantage point out of Sameer's direct line of sight, he felt free to simply watch and enjoy the sight of them together doing something so simple as reading a book. As for John, he just wanted to bottle the moment, the closeness and how Sameer was comfortable, and savour it. Sameer was none-the-wiser when John's arms tightened just a little bit around him and he nuzzled at the boy's hair, and Sherlock, under the guise of checking something on his muted mobile, managed to capture the tender moment in a discreetly taken picture.

++

"Are you sure?" John asked, once more. The bedroom light was out, the flat quiet, and they kept their voices low. With a press of his leg, he turned so that he was facing Sherlock, an arm tucked under his pillow as he watched glittering eyes blink back at him. "I mean, I think it's a good idea, but ..."

"You already asked me that, so please don't ask again." Sherlock huffed. "What makes you think I'm not committed?" 

John could hear how the words sounded back at him, the doubtfulness, and knew he'd unintentionally been offensive. "I just thought ..."

"Well, stop thinking," Sherlock hissed back, though lightly. "Unless it's not something you're ready for either. But don't use me as an excuse."

"Sorry. And, well, it's not." John sighed, knowing that they were in agreement yet he still felt he needed to proceed carefully. "I'm not. I want this, and you, all of it. But I know it's a lot to ask ..." Frowning, he snuck out a foot in search of Sherlock's calf and when he found it, he tucked his toes underneath. "It's a lot to ask of you."

"Good thing I've never asked anything of you, then." One side of Sherlock's mouth crinkled in fondness and jest. "Starting a long time ago with your mobile." Either or both of them could have begun a long list of favours, of demands, of expectations. And sacrifices.

Their eyes met, amused and twinkling finally, and two hands found each other, fingers warm and seeking, brushing, holding, clasping. United. "Well," John shrugged, "I suppose you're right there."

"I'll look into it tomorrow."

"I could do it, if you'd rather," John offered. "Seems it should be me." With a sigh of contentment at their proximity, their deciding on a plan, he considered something else. "I think I'll go in person though."

"He'll be more surprised that way, so yes, that would be better."

"We could _both_ go ...?" John suggested, his eyes crinkling as he smiled back. The Holmes brothers in the same room, he knew, almost always meant that the game was on. He found it particularly amusing when Sherlock was feeling ... spicy.

Although Sherlock appreciated his brother, and his brother's assistance in small doses, apparently he wasn't looking to appreciate him in person. "Pass. You'll have to get your entertainment some other way this time."

++

John wasn't a big fan of asking for assistance, and preferred to be on the helping end of things instead of the needing help side. But he knew it was that important, and he took a calming breath as he waited for Mycroft's secretary to grant him admittance to Mycroft's imposing office.

"Dr. Watson. To what do I owe this ... pleasure. Has my brother finally succeeded in driving you away? Destroyed the flat again?" Mycroft chuckled. "Kidding, of course. I would have been notified had there been an explosion or something else of that magnitude."

 _It's for Sameer_ , John reminded himself as he began to speak. To his credit, Mycroft listened quietly, though it wasn't too long into the request that John watched him secure pencil and paper. For a moment, there were scratchy sounds as he jotted down a few notes while John was speaking.

The momentary silence after he was finished was not uncomfortable, and John waited patiently. "So what you're asking me," Mycroft said, looking to summarise the request, "is simply a counselor with foreign adoption experience who will come to the flat once or twice a week to meet with Sameer, and possibly with all of you, the whole family?" His gaze was steady, a faint raise of the eyebrow, interrupted only by the occasional blink.

"One who will work with a translator, yes. A live translator, like what he had at school those first few weeks." After a few seconds, he reiterated, "Understandably, Sameer has some deep-rooted fear, some associations, and we want to do everything we can to help him through this." John shook his head slightly at the memory of Sameer's distress. "We've been told such a thing doesn't exist, that there are no persons trained to do therapy like this in conjunction with the translator. Most refuse to do on-site, in home visits. So we were hoping ..." John let the sentence trail off at Mycroft's little offhand gesture with his fingers.

In the ensuing silence, John could hear the quiet snort of Mycroft's apparent consideration of the simplicity of the request. Leaning back in his desk chair, he touched the tips of his fingers together. "When did you want to start? Because I should be able to work something out, at your convenience."

"Soon. Before ..." _something else triggers him_ , and he let the explanation die off. "Before too long."

"Consider it done." There was a creaking of sorts as the chair shifted, and Mycroft probably thought they were finished and so he adjusted his posture as if he was going to stand and see John out. John didn't take the bait, didn't heed the cue, didn't move. A snide grin of realisation appeared on Mycroft's face. "I take it that won't be all."

"Well, actually, no." John could feel the blood rushing in his ears and colouring his face, knowing the easier request was out of the way. He pressed ahead and continued. "I was wondering if you could possibly help us with some paperwork. Some official paperwork." John inhaled slowly, quietly, feeling the surge and flush of catecholamines affecting his cardiac output. Steady. Another breath.

Mycroft was completely silent as he waited. There was barely even the sound of hushed breathing. More silence preceded a faint, impatient Holmesian huff, and then a more snippy tone. "You realise, of course, Dr. Watson, that if you're asking for my help, I'm going to need more information than that." The words were dripping with the now full-blown smirk that adorned Mycroft's face, the unspoken 'get-on-with-it' communicated quite readily.

John debated quickly on whether he still wanted to actually ask the other more important favour, and of course he did. He tried to clear his throat without making too much noise. "Yes, well. Adoption paperwork, for starters, and ..."

"He's already your son. I hardly think that will be necessary."

"No. Not for me."

There was a brief, intentional moment of silence, the steady inspection of a pale pair of eyes watching, studying him, and the complete absence of blinking. Or breathing, John felt. "I see."

"In case something happens, I just ..." John heard his own mis-speak and corrected himself, " _we_ just ..."

"I understand. You should realise that establishing simple guardianship only requires ..."

"Not guardianship." John could see beginning stages of mild surprise. Both he and Sherlock, when surprised, had a predictable tilt to the angle of their heads, the faint cock of the eyebrow, the tiny lines over the bridge of the nose. Mycroft did not disappoint in that regard. " _Adoption_ , as I said."

"I would have to obtain official information, but to the depths of my knowledge, in order for an actual adoption, you would need to be in a civil partnership or mmm-- _oh_."

"That's the plan, yes." John could feel the first twinges of relief. "But we don't need your assistance with that. In fact," John began to explain further but was interrupted by the faint sound of Mycroft's chuckle. "What?"

Mycroft's words, clearly dripping with mirth, rang loud. "This is not at all what I had in mind when I had asked you all those years ago about an official announcement." One of Mycroft's eyebrows raised. "This is hardly an announcement at all. This is an, _oh by the way_ ..."

"I suppose I should apologise ..."

"No, of course not. It's hardly a surprise."

 _Of course it's not_ , John thought. "We'll take care of our arrangements, if you can at least see what's involved for approvals of the rest?"

"Personally, no. But I will assign someone to make inquiries.  I have an almost infinite number of connections who will certainly have no difficulty finding out."

"Thank you." John realised he hadn't perhaps elaborated enough. "And just so you know, this will be for the two of them."

"Rosamund and Sameer, yes, I would have expected as much."

"All right, I appreciate this.

"Quite a family, the crazy lot of you." It was as close to complimentary as Mycroft was going to get.

"We'll be in touch. Not having any kind of a ceremony. Signatures, I suppose, at the registrars is all. Just a small gathering to celebrate for Rosie and Sameer though, probably, at home. Sherlock will be sure to tease about having cake for you, maybe balloons for the kids." When there was another lull in their conversation, John couldn't help but want to turn the screws a bit. "Does your silence mean that you don't approve?"

John was ready to refer to him as ‘Uncle Mycroft’ when he answered. "Of course it means no such thing. I'm just plotting what to do for my brother to commemorate the occasion." Mycroft smiled again, a slightly mischievous smile at John from across the desk. _"Occasions."_  

John couldn’t stop the snicker at that, imagining the fussing that the brothers did at each other fairly regularly, and almost looking forward to it, at least for good reasons such as these. They both stood, knowing the visit was over or just about. With a hand on the doorframe, Mycroft tilted his head in John's direction and said, “Well, Dr. Watson, if that will be all ...”

And then another idea occurred to him. “Actually,” John said as he returned the smile, “now that you mention it. I do need to replace my RAMC mug, and have been unable to locate another. Mine had an ... unfortunate accident the other day.”

"I see." Mycroft's words and expression were inscrutable.

"I tried searching online, unavailable. I rang the military office but the item is out of stock. I thought perhaps ..."

"Perhaps?" The tone was almost indignant that John would have questioned his ability to help. Mycroft’s grin was somewhere between arrogant and pleased. Rising, he moved to a medium sized cabinet in the back corner of his office, indicating John should follow. Mycroft opened it, and stepped aside to allow John to see in. Several rows of new, plastic wrapped RAMC mugs sat, along with a familiar looking jumper (his favourite, in cream coloured wool), a collapsible cane that was identical to the one still tucked in the bottom of John’s closet, several magnifying glasses, some microscope parts and accessories, and a large clear, vacuum sealed bag containing fabric remarkably resembling Sherlock’s Belstaff. John blinked a few times, and couldn't stop the laughter. Spare parts, tucked away for emergencies. Further explanation of the cabinet, given Mycroft’s expression, was completely unnecessary. Mycroft cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and reached inside to take one mug out and hand it over to John.

"Really?" John finally asked, and his question was followed by another chuckle. "You really do care about him, despite all your ... fussing."

"I don't _fuss_. How pedestrian of you to think such a thing." 

"My apologies, then, Mycroft," John snarked back with a small amount of attitude himself.

"Surely you realise my brother's tendencies toward destruction. I simply do not like to be caught unawares." As he shut up the cabinet again, he eyed John sideways. "You mustn't tell him.

"All right, no harm in keeping this between us I suppose. And by the way, thanks." Although it was unexpected, John considered that he shouldn’t have been surprised. “How many of my mugs have already been replaced?”

”I’ll need a time frame. This month, or cumulatively?”

**Author's Note:**

> Sameer will be fine - and he's got a whole passel of people watching out for him.
> 
> ++
> 
> Oh, it can be so very true that sharp, unintended words can have dramatic impact on someone who is fragile and afraid. Even something exclaimed as a warning, like John's "Watch out!" could be misinterpreted.
> 
> And the growth spurt, upon consideration, was a good sign, actually, and probably brought on - finally - by adequate, balanced nutrition in Sameer's diet.
> 
> I'm sure the counselor and translator will work very well with this entire family and help with some of the issues Sameer is dealing with. I suppose it would have been perfectly acceptable for them all to go to an office for therapy, but I wanted it on Baker Street where Sameer is comfortable. And mostly, I needed a more believable reason for John and Sherlock to seek out Mycroft's help. Squint at the particulars ;-)
> 
> ++
> 
> Not exactly where I pictured this going, but well ... here it is. Squint at the details if need be, but let me know kindly if there's something too terribly awry. Otherwise, just enjoy the latest development for this little family. And I'm officially today on a break between classes - so on to the next little Sameer adventure.
> 
> ++
> 
> Thank goodness our Baker Street adults - and the endlessly resourced brother - aren't too easily rattled by yet another challenge.


End file.
